


Very Old Friends

by Narya_Flame



Series: Summerland [5]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Inspired by Fanfiction, Maglor (Tolkien) Through History, Modern Era, Post-Canon, Reunions, Scotland
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:47:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25916836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narya_Flame/pseuds/Narya_Flame
Summary: A short gapfiller set in the Summerland 'verse.  On a sunny day at the start of a new term in St Andrews, Maglor feels a familiar presence in the Song.
Relationships: Gandalf | Mithrandir & Maglor | Makalaurë
Series: Summerland [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1281971
Comments: 11
Kudos: 24





	Very Old Friends

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [~ Summerland ~](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15795351) by [Spiced_Wine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiced_Wine/pseuds/Spiced_Wine). 



> One of the differences between the Summerland series and The Wanderer is that Maglor and Olórin are aware of each others' presence much earlier in the timeline. This vignette depicts their initial reunion.

His thread in the Song was unmistakable. 

Maglor followed his feet and heart along West Sands, back towards the town. The high sun glowed on Hamilton Hall, and slid like honey over the Royal and Ancient's cream-gold stone. Tufts of cloud like spun sugar sailed through the sky, while groups of students played cricket or rounders on the flat, glistening sand. Maglor nodded at one or two that he recognised from the Philosophy department, careful to lightly blur the edges of their attention – not enough to be noticeable, nothing they would feel, but enough to prevent them from noticing too _much._

The golden notes grew warmer and clearer as he neared the golf course. Unbidden, Maglor's mouth curved, and for the first time in countless years the yearning ache inside him receded, soothed by the presence of the friend he had last seen sailing for the Straight Road. Could the old man feel him, he wondered? He would not have been sent back with all of his powers, or even most of them; that had not been the way before, except at the end. Would he even _be_ an old man? The Ainur, after all, could take any form they wished. He might have come back as a woman – or even a child.

The thought made Maglor smile.

He paused at the curve of the embankment, and sent his mind seeking through the layers of Music and mental chatter. There – loving warmth, a sharp crackle, a thrum like a cello's bowed string. Gently, half-afraid, he touched it. _Olórin...?_

His friend's soul leapt like fanned flames. _Blessed Eru._ The familiar notes curled around his own song of adamant and white fire. Grief and shock underscored delight and disbelief. _After all this time..._

 _What did you expect?_ Maglor gave Olórin's mind a playful nudge. _Tell me where you are._

 _On the golf course. At the bridge between the fairways._

Maglor's smile widened. _I won't be a moment._

It wasn't far from the beach to the famous bridge. Its low, ancient arch spanned the burn, and its patchwork stone soaked up the sun and shone rust-gold. A figure straightened as he approached – no cloaked and hatted wizard, but a round, kindly old man in fawn trousers and an argyle vest, bespectacled, bald, with twinkling eyes under thick, dark brows. 

“No walking stick?” asked Maglor, tilting his head.

“Impudent child.” And for the barest instant the glamour shivered. The old man was gone, and in his place stood the tall, ageless figure that Maglor knew from the West – and then he breathed out, and the illusion returned. “How I've missed you.”

“And I you.” Heedless of the golfers around them, Maglor stepped onto the bridge and into the waiting embrace. _Ai, Gods, Olórin..._

 _I cannot say much. Not here._

_I know._ Maglor leaned into his friend's presence with a relief as dizzying and sharp as a wound. _I have a house in town. We can go there._

 _Very good._ A warm, rough hand around his cheek. “Come, now.” Olórin's voice was gently chiding. “We're attracting attention.”

“Which is the very last thing we want.”

“Indeed.”

But as he stepped away and breathed in the late summer air, Maglor saw that the wrinkled cheeks were wet with tears. Hesitantly, he gripped Olórin's shoulder. “It's alright.” 

The answering smile was full of old, quiet sorrow. It was not alright, and well they both knew it. Maybe it would never be alright again – if it ever had been to begin with. But perhaps, Maglor thought as they left the bridge, it would be a little easier now.

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea whether Vanimórë and/or Vanya were involved in ensuring that Maglor and Olórin were both in St Andrews at the same time. Maybe they were - or maybe it was just the world moving in mysterious ways.


End file.
